


Mr. President

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Obama meets the stargate program
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:16:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>President Obama has so far managed to convince his staff that he's all right with some looser formality.  Having a silver-haired man -- he squints at the insignia on his chest; a general? -- appear in his office with a lazy salute and a smirk of a grin is a little too informal, even for his tastes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. President

**Author's Note:**

> Written directly after Obama was first elected president.

"Evenin', Mr. President."

President Obama has so far managed to convince his staff that he's all right with some looser formality. Having a silver-haired man -- he squints at the insignia on his chest; a general? -- appear in his office with a lazy salute and a smirk of a grin is a little too informal, even for his tastes.

"Drat," the maybe-general says after a moment. "I was hoping you'd jump, or something."

He hasn't reached the level he's in now by being a bad judge of character. For all the insouciant playfulness about this man, there's seriousness in the steady blue gaze and respect in the straightened set of his shoulders. Barack takes all of that in with a glance and comes to a quick decision. "I'm not a jumpy kind of guy, General... "

"O'Neill, and no, I didn't think you were. Sorry for dropping in like this, but I wasn't sure we'd have a better time to chat. I find going through the normal channels to be so boring, don't you?"

It could be a test, but Barack doesn't think so. At least, not the kind of aggressive, thrust-chinned tests he's still being given by most of the military personnel he meets. Winning them over is frustratingly slow going, but it's not unexpected and Barack knows he can out-stubborn anyone but his wife. He'll get them all eventually. But in the meantime: settling back in his chair, Barack taps his left pointer on his right wrist, a hold over from when he used to smoke. "And what exactly we will be talking about?"

O'Neill smiles, startlingly boyish. "I had a speech all planned, starting with, _Mr. President, would you like to meet an alien_ , but since you _still_ haven't asked how I appeared in your office -- " here, he looks around the room with a sense of reverence " -- without your staff or security noticing, I think I'll take the more... tacit approach."

"Mentioning aliens from the start is _tacit?"_

"Well, it is if you're _me._ Mr. President, I'm Major-General Jack O'Neill and I'm here to brief you on a program called the Stargate. I've had my people check your calendar and you're clear for a while, which is good, because you'll need time to ask questions and probably find a small room to freak out in, for a while. That's what Hayes did," O'Neill confides, expression subtly condemning.

Given what he's learned of former-President Hayes, Barack's inclined to agree with that assessment. The man was scared of everything, and it was his frequent overcompensating for that fear that got them all into so much trouble. But all of that is irrelevant, because O'Neill is still watching him, still waiting for him to pick up on all those verbal cues he's littered into his pretty, arrogant speeches, and Barack has never met a challenge he could back down from.

Standing up, once again grateful that he was tall and could be imposing when he wanted, Barack came around his desk and stood directly in front of General O'Neill. "You mentioned aliens. Little green men with big eyes?"

"Gray, actually, and I wish I could show you one of those." Under the shadow of the United States flag, General O'Neill looked abruptly old and sad, a man who had seen too much life and death and had come out tempered by it. Other than his sense of humor, anyway. "But Teal'c is waiting aboard the _Deadalus_ and he's promised he won't try to intimidate you _too_ badly. I think he likes you, personally, which is pretty hard to tell. Teal'c doesn't usually like anything. Well, pizza. He likes pizza. And funny hats."

The President heard all of the meaningless chatter and ignored it, the way he was coming to realize not many people of this general's association did. Because throughout the prattle, O'Neill had taken a small grey device from his pocket and had thumbed a curving obsidian piece set in the center. "I need to clear this with my security," he said, butterflies mounting in his stomach. Assassination attempts weren't a far-off threat for the first black president. Especially from the military.

But O'Neill just looked up at him, quirking an irrepressible smile and said, "We've got it in hand," before the world turned white, and then grey, with a swirl of spangled darkness beyond his head, the fading chime of something mechanized and _beautiful_ still ringing in his ears as Barack realized he wasn't in his office, anymore, that in fact he was standing on the floor -- prow? deck? -- of a room that looked like a cross between a submarine and a Star Trek set, exactly as unbelievably different and prosaically normal as he was halfway expecting, because what else _could_ he expect? The most amazing things came in familiar packages, and there was nothing more familiar than the layout of a military vehicle.

Except. Oh, except.

He edged towards the endless expanse of black with a tremble in his knees, unashamed of the tears he knew were gathering. Men weren't supposed to cry, so the story went, but Barack had never held to that. Momentous things should be greeted with a momentous response, and there was nothing, nothing more momentous than this.

"This better not be some kind of elaborate trick," he told the tiny, revolving blue marble below him.

"Indeed it is not, Mr. President," a deep, deeply _formal_ voice said to his side.

Barack turned to see a staggeringly tall man with elegant eyes and a gold symbol pressed into his forehead. He was aware, dimly, of the scrutiny of the people beyond him, the quiet of military men waiting at attention for their commander in chief. He'd grown used to that, and was content to ignore it.

Because this man, this _person_ , didn't look at him that way. Nor did he have the almost blinding awe Barack still saw in too many people who had waited so long for someone to fill up their hopes, breathing life into the clothes they'd so painstakingly darned.

No, this time Barack was looked at with compassion. And _distance._ It was a terrifying combination. "I'm Barack Obama," he heard himself saying, his voice rougher than usual for all its tinny smallness, "I have the pleasure of meeting...?"

"Teal'c, Mr. President," Teal'c responded with grave intensity. "Once, I was First Prime to the Go'auld Apophis. When my people, the Jaffa, finally threw off the tyranny of all the Go'auld, I chose to pledge my services to the SGC. Here I stay, and fight, for all the people of Earth."

He had to close his stinging eyes. From his home, a dizzying swirl of white and blue so far away, from the watching, waiting military, and especially from this terrifying visage that stood before him and looked at him with such kindness. Carefully, he said, "On behalf of the United States, I welcome you. And I thank you."

It was only when Barack opened his eyes that Teal'c bowed from the waist, a tiny smile on his face. "It was, if I may say, a wise choice on my part. If you will follow me, Mr. President, we've prepared a room for your visit."


End file.
